HAIL to the pride of the forest—hail

To the maple, tall and green!

It yields a treasure which ne'er shall fail

While leaves on its boughs are seen.

When the moon shines bright

On the wintry night,

Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades,

It lifts its tall head on high,

When the crimson-tinted evening fades

From the glowing saffron sky;

When the sun's last beams

Light up woods and streams,

And brighten the gloom below;

And the deer springs by

With his flashing eye,

And the shy, swift-footed doe;

And the sad winds chide

In the branches wide,

With a tender plaint of woe.

The Indian leans on its rugged trunk,

With the bow in his red right-hand,

And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk

From the glorious forest land.

But, blithe and free,

The maple-tree,

Still tosses to sun and air

Its thousand arms,

While in countless swarms

The wild bee revels there;

But soon not a trace

Of the red-man's race

Shall be found in the landscape fair.

When the snows of winter are melting fast,

And the sap begins to rise,

The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red;

Far down in the forest dark

A ruddy glow on the trees is shed,

That lights up their rugged bark;

And with merry shout

The busy rout

Watch the sap as it bubbles high;

And they talk of the cheer

Of the coming year,

And the jest and the song pass by;

And brave tales of old

Round the fire are told,

That kindle youth's beaming eye.

Hurrah! for the sturdy maple-tree!

Long may its green branch wave

In native strength, sublime and free,

Meet emblem for the brave.

May the nation's peace

With its growth increase,

And its worth be widely spread;

For it lifts not in vain

To the sun and rain

Its tall, majestic head.

May it grace our soil,

And reward our toil,

While the nation's day is sped!